Alone
by Castiel's drycleaner
Summary: The twins work best together. When circumstances force Murphy out of mission, will an ailing Connor be able to handle it alone? threeshot, connor whump, murpy angst
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I recently became acquainted with McManus brothers. And damn me, but I'm in love…._

_I was reading a fic which mentioned it was a three way crossover between Supernatural (a tv show), the Cal Leandros books series, and something called the Boondock Saints – with three sets of brothers. Knowing the author had at least sixty-six percent in good taste in brotherly relationships, I found this little movie I'd never heard of before._

_Scouring the fanfiction (after having watched it innumerable ^infinity times), I was a little disappointed with the lack of pure, honest angst/h/c. Not that angst/h/c/ is pure…._

_So here is my contribution, posted in two parts. It is already complete, so do not fear that I will leave you hanging._

_Warning, it may seem a little out of character at first, but there is a reason… Stay with it…_

_Mary Sue Free Zone._

_And, one last thing. Slash is not to my taste…_

_Thanks for giving this a try, if you have anything to say, please review!!!_

* * *

**Alone**

By castiel's drycleaner

Rated T for violence, graphic descriptions of violence and injuries, and swearing. If any of this offends you, you obviously are not a Saint's fan… Or at least can put up with it… lol….

* * *

_And _a shepherd I _shall be _

_For thee my lord, for thee _

_Power hath descended forth from thy hand _

_That _my_ feet may swiftly carry out thy command _

_So _I _shall flow a river forth to Thee _

_And teeming with souls shall it ever be _

_In nomine Patris, et Filii Spiritus Sancti _

-Boondock Saints, 1999 (revised)

"Well, fuck you then!" Murphy shot back hotly to his brother. He tensed and placed his back to the redwood door of their latest apartment. On the second floor. Murphy and Connor had agreed on that without any discussion. It was a bit nicer than their standard fair, but only held one bedroom.

A new hole appeared in the cream colored wall beside the door frame of the bedroom where Connor leaned. He slowly pulled his fist out, tiny rivulets of blood dripping down from his knuckles. "Fucking come off it Murph. What's the big fuckin' deal if I go?" Connor's eyes changed then from what they were to a steely impassive gray. He took a small breath. Murphy stepped backwards, edging himself closer to the door, keeping his brother in view the whole time. He stood ready, feet apart, weight on the balls of his feet, and took a calming breath. He forced himself to undergo a cooling metamorphous, removing his mind from his hotheaded temper and eased in to the role that Connor normally filled.

"You know I called Agent Smecker. Told him we weren't going to fuckin' do it tonight." His voice was as light and dispassionate as he could will it.

"You mean I wasn't." Connor retorted flatly, and took a few quick steps to his twin's face. Murphy ran a hand through his dark hair. "What gives you the fuckin' right ta tell me what ta do?" Connor continued. Murphy dropped his hands to his side.

"I am the older brother, remember?" He grinned cockily at the slimmer man's expression.

"Oh, fuck that! I had ice on mine." Connor said indignantly missing the joke.

"And you're –" Murphy started with an earnest concern on his face. Connor tried to side step his brother. Murphy's hand shot out and pulled the lone gun from Connor's shoulder holster.

"Give that the fuck back!"

"Take it from me and I'll let you go." Came Murphy's deceptively calm voice. Murphy rolled back his body as Connor's fist flew for his jaw. Murphy grabbed his wrist, and yanked his brother's arm up, which off-balanced the man. He swept a foot around Connor's back ankle, sending the lighter haired man to the floor. Murphy quickly dropped, sat down the gun, and pinned Connor to the floor with his body. He pushed one forearm across Connor's upper chest, forcing him hard to the linoleum after Connor's somewhat comical attempt to head butt him.

Murphy pressed down hard, keeping one of Connor's arms pinned below his knee, each of which straddled his twin. Murphy still held Connor's other arm above Connor's own head. Murphy's free arm increased the pressure on Connor's chest. Connor's breath came in quick short gasps as his body bucked.

"Get the fuck off me."

"I am fucking sorry, okay?" Emotion began to creep back into Murphy's voice. "I didn't mean to get ID'd. We both didn't know he was there."

"You can't even get outta' shitty hold like this, and you want to go out by yerself?" Murphy asked pointedly, keeping an even pressure on the top of his twin's chest, just under his neck.

"You don't get a second chance… for something like this," Connor wheezed out. Murphy relented a small bit, frowning because he knew it wasn't the force on Connor's chest that kept him out of breath.

"We have before," Murphy bit back, thinking of the bastard who killed Rocco.

"Yer fucking fault… I have ta go alone." Connor blinked his desperation-hardened eyes, and they shifted back to looking as glassy and dull as before. Connor was choking out his words now. Murphy eased back, sensing temporary submission. But what tore at him was the knowledge that his twin only gave in from exhaustion, not from the realization that his brother Murphy was right. Not from the wealth of calm level-headedness Connor normally possessed, and certainly not from luck or divine providence.

"I know Connor." Murphy said standing up and putting out a hand for his twin. Connor rolled onto his stomach and stayed there for a few minutes, panting softly. He rose up with less grace than his brother, ignoring the offered hand. He blinked his eyes lazily a few time, and wobbled briefly before striding back to the bedroom. Murphy tried not to notice that Connor kept his bloodied hand on the wall for balance.

"Just go have a kip, a beer, and keep your mind off it, till later." Murphy offered, swallowing at the small pang of rejection he felt from his twin's slight.

"Keep my mind off the fact that yer letting a murdering bastard live long enough ta kill again fer no fucking reason." Connor mumbled. Murphy felt a slice cut through him. Yes. He was. There was no way to go on the hit himself. He had fucked that up. And Connor could not go. Murphy was letting a known ruthless drug dealer live a little longer. Probably long enough for more desperate and vulnerable people to get hooked on his meth laced mix or die. Long enough for a random civilian to get in the way of one his deals. But… He had a fucking reason. A fucking good one. And if Connor's own body wasn't frying his brain, he'd be able to see it.

Connor shuddered slightly, a twin's empathy writing itself across his flushed features. "You keep on like this and you'll grow a set of tits." Murphy read the apology in his blue eyes. Connor saw his brother's small smirk and shut the bedroom door behind him.

Murphy eased himself down on the lazy boy pointed towards their new big screen telly in the corner of the living room. He flicked it on, muted the volume on the soccer game that had just started, and kept an ear on his brother. It was too late at night for anything but those tired talk shows or crime dramas, which always put him off. More so now, given the calling he and Connor had taken up. So he watched a replay of a soccer game from that morning, even though he never personally got into the sport.

Connor's slightly hoarse voice came through a widening crack in the bedroom door. "You said to Smecker the hit was off?" Murphy turned in his chair to look back at Connor, again leaning against the door frame, clinging to it with one white knuckled hand. His face was rosy with the fever that had been sapping his strength, and recently his judgment, for well over three days. Three days since their last job. The one Murphy had fucked up.

Murphy shrugged to himself, "Yeh, why?"

"Won't it be pretty suspicious when no one shows up?" Connor's voice held an odd edge to it. "Or did they get a call saying no one was coming ta make the buy?"

"No call. No way to, he said. Mafioso has himself locked back in that concrete room already." Murphy said in reply, slightly relieved that the conversation was not turning into another argument. The fights between him and Connor never really bothered him, but in truth, it was usually him that sent the first volley. Conner may be the first to land a hit, but he rarely started the argument. It was unnerving.

"Aye." Connor slipped back to the room and the apartment went silent. Murphy hoped it meant Connor was going back to his bed.

---

Three quarters of the way through the second half of the match, Murphy began to doze through the game. He heard the door creak open. Connor didn't say anything to him as his brother padded towards the living room. He dismissed his brother's movements until his felt two small metal prongs at the base of his neck.

"Won't give these fuckers another chance." Came Connor's quiets hoarse voice. Murphy thought he heard the depression of the stun gun's trigger as everything flashed white.

Connor swore softly to himself and straightened slowly. Murphy was going to kill him when he came to… Connor took a deep breath to calm himself, but that just made his chest ache worse. He stumbled as he turned around. He shook his head and immediately wished he didn't. Glazed eyes searching, he found the portable phone lying on the kitchen table under empty boxes of cold and flu medication and a carton of cigarettes. He was aching for a smoke, but it irritated his chest too much. Last time he had nearly ripped a muscle from coughing so hard. Murphy had hid the subsequently rest of the smokes from him. Guess Murph got lazy.

Connor walked slowly over to the table, ran a wistful hand over the carton, but grabbed the phone instead. He tried to dial Smecker's number from memory, but after two very interesting misdials, he sorted through the crap on the table looking for Smecker's card.

Connor dropped it. Nothing was working for him today. Leaning down, he picked the small white card up with a frown. His vision started getting colored stars through it. "Fucking sat up too quickly." Punching in the correct number, he listened for Smecker's smooth voice to answer. "Hello?"

"Aye, it's me." He paused as Smecker whispered for him to go ahead. "I'm off to do the job."

"Thought you were ID'd?" Smecker's voice sounded annoyed, and too loud.

"Nah, it's Connor." He said back.

"What are you doing going out? Murphy said you're out for now." Smecker's voice seemed to grate harshly in Connor's ear. "Put your brother on, please?" Connor clicked the end button. He reached for a can of one of those horrid energy drinks Murphy liked. He drank it back, knowing he needed the kick. Shivering, he did up the buttons on his black coat. It was the middle of August. Why was it too fucking cold in their apartment?

Connor stood slowly. He would go and get that mother fucker before that drug dealing bastard could get anyone else killed. Then he would come home, get ripped a new one by Murphy, and go back to bed. He could live with that. And surely someone else would live because of that.

Coughing harshly, Connor picked up his guns, and left alone.

* * *

Murphy lay unmoving on the lazy boy, but his unconscious mind drifted away. In hindsight, Murphy reflected, he and Connor should have realized that the mission was going to go FUBAR from the beginning. Maybe, it was because it was a Sunday, a broken commandment or two right there. Maybe, it was because they were both still hung-over from the night before, enough said. But mostly, it was because Connor was sick.

A tip had fallen into their laps, if by the grace of God as their tips often do, about a large shipment of cocaine purportedly being picked up by members of the Russian mafia. One of the bosses was supposed to be there to supervise, which of course sweetened the prospect. But getting rid of a shipment of ice, and taking out some soldiers and underbosses would have been reason enough to go.

Murphy had first noticed it as they were kitting up. Connor was coughing. Not the first thing in the morning cough that invariably came from smoking. Or so that nurse he once dated had said… But a deep wet cough that made Murphy wince.

"You alright, man?" Murphy asked.

"Aye, just a wee bit of a cold. Had a runny nose all day." Connor wiped it with his sleeve, as if to prove his point.

"You're disgusting." Murphy moved away from him.

It was the way Connor had become a bit breathless as they walked to the pier that made Murphy really start to worry. "You need to start hitting the gym, if this little walk's got you huffing." Connor coughed softly, and smacked him in the arm.

"Keep yer germ infested hands away from me!" Murphy danced backwards of his brother's reach.

"Get serious Murph! We're almost there." Connor snapped irritably.

"Fuck you!" But they both quieted as they caught sight of the harbor. The strong, humid wind blowing off the ocean smelled strongly of salt, and made the night seem colder than it was. It also obscured the noise of the night, muted sounds of traffic, and other business. It isolated the brothers in a surreal way neither was truly comfortable with. Murphy hefted his bag higher on to shoulder, taking comfort in the familiar weight.

"Odd night, isn't it?" Connor asked somewhat rhetorically. The MacManus' walked through the hazy moonlight, looking for the pier where this drug deal was allegedly going down.

"Should be that way, shouldn't it." Murphy pointed to his left. Connor nodded. Both immediately stopped appearing to be regular men out for a stroll, and slipped into the shadows of the scenery like they were a part of the dark. Weaving through a maze of box cars, the boys were not disappointed when they caught sight of eight men standing over several crates. One had been cracked open and most definitely did not contain the fruit it claimed.

Both brother's nodded and slipped on their masks. They snuck closer to the area, grateful for the amount of cover they had. It was an open environment, a rather exposed area to make a hit, but lack of better information left them with little choice. In unison the twins stepped from around the boxcar closest to the pier their quarry were standing on, and started firing.

The first two to go down did not even realize what had hit them. The richest dressed men were likely the higher ranked Mafioso's they had been informed of. Murphy had selected his next target: a brutish looking man, not unlike the late Checkov. The mob peon, not the Star Trek actor. The guy was quickly pulling aside his coat to reveal a Russian staple. An Alexander Kalashnikov. Murphy ducked around the crate and leaned out enough to aim. He fired quickly, already looking to see who his brother had left standing.

Murphy swore as he heard gunfire. Loud gunfire, not the silenced high pitched pops his and Connor's guns made. He looked for the source, seeing the bright white light erupting from the barrel of another AK-47. It was not firing at him. He followed the path of the bullets in time to see Connor dive off the pier to avoid the wide spray of lead. Murphy screamed out some obscenity and put two shots into the man's forehead before mobster could aim for him.

One person was left standing. He put three quick shots into the man's torso before ripping off the mask and running to the edge of the dock. A feeling of acute panic gripped his chest. He was alone up here.

"Connor! Connor!" He skidded to a stop, about to remove his wool pea coat before jumping in. He could swim. Sort of. No formal lessons, but being raised near the ocean had given him some experience in the water. Plus a few girlfriends liked to collect shells, and the best always came from in the water.

He couldn't see anything other than the inky black surface of the sea. Did Connor get hit? Where was he? Murphy was just about to jump in – diving from a height onto God-knows-what is always stupid – when something caught his eye.

A head broke the surface. "Connor, you alright?"

"Jesus it's fuckin' cold!"

And the head went under again.

"Connor!" The head bobbed back up, and Murphy heard a large gasp, followed by choking. "Connor, I'm coming in. Just kick yer feet. Stay up!" Murphy had almost stepped off the dock when he heard a shout from below.

"Wait!" A hoarse cry came from below. The form started moving to the shore. Murphy was starting to sweat.

"Connor, can you get out?"

"Aye." Connor was coughing again. Murphy watched his brother swim for the edge. He remained on the dock. They had a long walk back, and Connor would need something dry to wear.

"Keep talking to me!" Murphy's voice went up an octave. Connor disappeared from view. He was under the pier now. Murphy started to run across the pier, his eyes searching for the easiest way down to the beach level. He ran past one of the drug crates. Something clinked forcefully in his mind. There were only seven bodies. He swore and threw himself behind cover. Murphy started wondering why he didn't have a bullet in his back yet. The merchandise was still there. No peon that expected to live left that much capital unguarded. Murphy's keen eyes searched the darkness. The shape of a crouched body in the shadows stood out. It was shaking slightly. A coward, then. He sighed, and cocked his gun. Fine.

Murphy aimed.

"Please, niet!" Two hands went up. Murphy paused. They were empty. No gun was pointed at him. The figure slowly stood up. "Niet." The voice rang oddly in Murphy's adrenaline filled ears. The person stepped out of the shadows.

A youthful boy stared at him. Big fearful eyes stared into Murphy's soul. It was a shock.

"A fucking kid."

"I wouldn't shoot. Niet!" The kid said again. And Murphy lowered his aim.

"The fuck are you doin' out here?" Murphy asked incredulously. Getting closer to the boy, Murphy guessed his age to be no more than thirteen years old.

"Papa sent me out to watch." The boy answered in Russian. Murphy went cold. The kid certainly saw a lot. What the fuck was he supposed to do?

"Who is your father?" Murphy asked back in the boys tongue.

"Zhukov." The boys answer ranging hollowly in Murphy's ears. He shivered. The fucking head of the Russian mob. What to do? Connor would know.

Connor.

"Connor!" Murphy shouted again.

No reply. "Jesus fucking Christ!" He screamed. The kid jumped back. "Can you get home?" Murphy asked, not knowing what to do with the boy. Thou shall not murder. Not that he could kill a child. The boy nodded dumbly in response. "Do you have a phone?" The boy nodded again. "Give it here, and be on your way!" That would give Murphy enough time to pay respects to the dead and get Connor out of there. Or just get Connor out of there. The boy dropped the small black cell on the ground and took off like a shot.

Murphy's mind flashed back to the first man he'd killed. The Russian in the alley. How he'd carried his unconscious brother to the hospital.

Connor still wasn't answering him. Dread gripping him, he ran for the end of the pier and dropped down ten feet to the beach. He barely noticed the flash of pain as he landed. It was dark down here. Too fucking dark to see worth a damn.

"Connor! You okay?" Murphy ran down the rocky base, under the docks. He tripped in the dark several times. The footing was treacherous. He came to where he guessed their hit was. "Connor, answer me you fucker!"

Worst case scenarios ran unchecked through Murphy's mind. Connor never made it out of the water. Connor drowned. Connor bled out before he made it to shore. Connor's lying on the ground somewhere, breathing his last alone 'cause you can't find him. Then Murphy tripped hard, and went to the ground. He rolled over to kick the offending object, and his jaw dropped.

The black form of a man lay face down on the ground, unmoving. Murphy rolled Connor to his back. Connor turned over limply, heavily. There was a dead weight to him. Murphy leaned down and pulled the balaclava off his brother's head. He put an ear to his brother's mouth. Short, quiet gasps filled his hearing. He experimentally slapped his brother's face. Connor mumbled something.

Murphy raised a brow. "What did you jest say?"

"Phone in sick… fer me." Murphy let one corner of his mouth perk up.

"You hurt? You shot?" Connor was soaking wet, so feeling for blood was useless. Murphy stripped his brother's heavy coat off of him.

"Shot… What?" Connor muttered back to him, and then started coughing. Murphy rolled his brother onto his side, and sea water sprayed from Connor's mouth. The spasms left Connor's body, and Murphy took a deep breath mirroring his brother.

"Easy now, anywhere hurt?" Murphy probed a grabbed his brother's arm hard. "Answer me Conn!"

"No, just numb. Cold." Murphy rolled his eyes. He really hoped his brother wasn't bleeding out, because the state Connor was in, he probably couldn't feel if his own leg was missing.

Murphy sat behind his brother and gathered him up so his torso wasn't lying on the beach. He pulled off Connor's turtle neck with some difficulty. The wet material stuck to Connor's skin like shit on your best church shoes. He helped Connor into his own dry pea cot.

"Get up. Need you to walk with me. Just walk with me." He saw a ladder close to where he had left their gear. Perfect.

Murphy stood up slowly, holding Connor to him. His twin's legs buckled expectantly. "No more donuts for you." He lifted his brother over his shoulder. The wind whipped at them, and Connor started to shiver. It was a good sign. Shivering was definitely better than not shivering, given the situation.

Murphy made his way to the ladder. How was he going to get Connor up the fucking ladder? Murphy was about to attempt the somewhat imposable climb when Connor voice sounded from somewhere near his ass cheeks.

"Put me down." It was one of the clearer things that had come from his twin's mouth in a while, so he complied. Connor rest against the ladder, and swiveled his head around to look up. "Might be able to get up that." Murphy winced. Chances were Connor would have to climb it if they were going to get out of there before the kid brought back the mafia. But his twin was barely moving on his own. Murphy ran a hand over his face, considering, then nodded. Pulling Connor to his feet, Murphy guided his uncoordinated brother to grip the ladder rungs. Getting up the ladder involved too many close calls. Too many times that Connor started coughing and forgot to keep his balance, or hold on to the rungs. Murphy was panting as hard as his ailing brother by the time they were both safely on the deck again.

"I'm going to get our stuff." Murphy looked his brother over again for blood. "Then we're leaving."

"The pennies." Connor said. Murphy did not like the way Connor was having trouble forming sentences.

"No time for dat. Gotta' get you outta' here." Murphy said seriously.

"Make time." Murphy acquiesced and went through their ritual of absolution for the dead faster than he ever had before. He was still praying when he slipped down the ladder to retrieve Connor's wet clothes. He made a brief detour to push the crates of cocaine off the pier into the ocean. Just in case the mobsters made it back there before the cops.

Murphy stood at his brother's side and looked down at him. "You'll never guess whose son I just met, face to face." Connor's fluttering eyes met his briefly.

"Murphy? Who?"

---

"Murphy!

"Murphy, wake up!"

Murphy came to with a gasp. He opened his eyes and was face to face with one Agent Smecker. Murphy's head ached. His entire body was twitching. He could feel the burn on his neck.

"Mother fucker." The curse slurred out of his mouth. Smecker shook his head with a small smile. He backed away from Murphy's sudden glare.

"I take it your brother went out alone?"

* * *

_A/N. Thus concludes part one of two. Please, if you have anything to say, let me know!!!!!_

_Love to get reviews, chat with other fans, etc. PWEASE!!!!! If you loved it, hated it, found a million and one typso, sorry I mean typos… is typos a word……. Hmmm…._

_Thanks everyone to my beta OTS (who I hope to recruit to Boondocks fandom). She looked through this, despite having little knowledge of BDS. I went over it again and played with a few things, so any residual mistakes are my bad._

_Thanks guys._


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I want to say thanks to the support I got from the readers. Especially those nine people who reviewed, favourited, and alerted. Hope you guys keep it up. I think I will be writing more in this category in future. The boys are really fun to write. Have a few fic ideas percolating, I hinted at a few of them in this chapter and the next. If there are any you want, tell me in your review... _Hint._

So, due to more unforseen circumstances, half the chapter is still with my beta, but I still wanted to post. I was toying with the idea of splitting the last chapter in two parts, cause it is so freaking long, and now it is a good excuse too....

Part three will be posted very soon, I promise!!

So sorry for the wait. Had a few computer issues.... And I had to rewrite.... the whole fucking thing. I think its better this way.

So here it is:

* * *

Alone Pt.2

By. castiel's drycleaner

Rating T: See previous chapter warnings!

* * *

The pale yellow glow barely illuminated the figure slumped in a small brown car parallel parked – sort of – on the small side street. The car was an old sedan, from the late eighties: a perfect cover. It was just dirty and rusted enough to redirect the attention of cops, thieves, and the MacManus's targets onto the next vehicle. A church choir would get more attention from the lowlifes. The car was a recent purchase for the jobs which required a lift to and from the hit, where having the large surveillance van was unnecessary. Connor rested his head against the black plastic of the steering wheel. The long drive had taken more out of him than he preferred, the random, quick flaring of the head lights in his vision had made his headache worse.

The black clad man pushed off the car and headed down the streets. Connor idly fingered the buttons on his wool pea coat, considering whether or not he could unbutton just one more. It was unnaturally warm that evening. However, one more button could expose his shoulder holster and arms to the view of the public, and this was not an Irish neighborhood. It was in an older part of Boston for sure, but the poor could not afford to have bomb shelters built for them in the height of the Cold War. A bomb shelter was where Zhuklov had his stash and deals set up. It was impenetrable to attack except to go in the only entrance, which was capable of being sealed from the inside compartments out. The only way to make a hit work was to start on the furthest compartment from the entrance, and work backwards. But one had to first get inside with Zhuklov without arousing suspicion.

Connor walked the three long blocks to the address Smecker had forwarded Murphy the night before. He stopped behind a house on the corner and coughed into his jacket arm to snuffle the sound. Phlegm and spittle flew out of his mouth. He groaned to himself and kicked dirt over it, then continued on.

Connor squared his shoulders, but tucked his chin down, trying to not meet anyone's eye. He wished to appear strong, but uninterested, or uninteresting. He gripped his bag tightly in one gloved hand, the weight seeming heavier than it usually did. He looked over his shoulder to catch Murphy's eye to signal to his twin to start walking. Murphy was not there. He sighed to himself, feeling a mixture of foolishness, guilt, and loneliness. He continued the last leg of his walk to the meeting. Four figures stood on the sidewalk in front of the concrete bunker. Two men, whose purpose was obviously more for their brawn than their brains, stood shifting from foot to foot, glancing at their watches, and generally appearing bored and impatient. The first of the two brutes looked up as Connor approached.

Connor made eye contact.

"Are you here for an appointment?" The first Russian said. His build reminded Connor of the gorilla in the Tarzan movie. The over-enunciated English seemed too loud in Connor's sensitive ears. Connor nodded once, and a rush of black speckles crossed his vision. He expelled a breath softly, and had to smother another cough. Both the mob peons were looking at him oddly, trying to size him up. Connor straightened as he noticed he had been leaning forward with his hands on his knees. A third person caught Connor's eyes. The young boy was Murphy's buddy, Connor assumed. The boy was obviously nervous, sweating and shaking, and his face quickly raked over Connor's, then pinned back down to the ground.

The second Russian spoke. His voice was growly, and he appeared to be the hairiest Russian Connor had ever seen. "What's your name?" Wolfman narrowed his hazel eyes at Connor.

"Conn-" Connor cut himself off coughing. Coughing that was intended to be a ruse when the boy's eyes had snapped back to him in alarm. Connor cursed himself in his mind. "Conlin," he finished as smoothly as he could. The kid huffed out a sigh of audible relief – relief echoed in Connor's mind. He had just about screwed this job up. Boston Saint Found Shot in Street: Died by Own Stupidity. Wouldn't Murphy be proud.

The fourth person, the chauffer and Smecker's contact, stood coolly on the periphery. He took a step forward a laid a hand on the boy's shoulder in a familiar comforting gesture. One that made Connor aware of how alone he really was. "The young master has finished his business for the evening. It is already far too late." The English accent would have been startling if not for the reaffirming of the old cliché. All good servants are English. Not Irish...

Gorrilla spoke to Connor again. "Depends, you come alone?"

Connor did not pause in his response. "Yes." He tried to speak in his best mimic of an American accent. He hoped that the earnest truth of his response was seen by the Russians, so they'd let the boy leave. Sure enough his informant herded the young man off towards a shining black Bentley with no protests from the muscle. The three remaining men waited on the side walk for the car drive off. The first soldier turned back to Connor.

"This way."

They led Connor – another strike against them. One should never leave your back to an unproven man. Wolfman pulled open a large heavy door. The original locks were gone, leaving only a slide latch mounted on the inside of the door to secure the shelter.

The first room of the shelter was bare, dusty concrete, save for a small palette made up in the corner, and a table with two chairs next to the door that must lead further into the bunker. The two Russian men stood near the table looking at where Connor had stopped to examine the room. Connor listed to the side suddenly, his balance off. He staggered slightly after a quick step to regain his balance. The two men rolled their eyes. Connor heard a not-so-soft comment in Russian about Americans not being able to hold their liquor. Deciding suddenly to play up their perceptions a bit, he took a step forward to them and his balance wavered. He intended to make some corny joke. Not look like a drunk. Gritting his teeth into a misshapen smile, he said with his apparently none-too-phony accent,

"What was that, German?" The two men rolled their eyes in slight offence, but Connor was sure he saw a speck of amusement their too.

Wolfman growled at him. "Are you carrying any weapons?"

"Yes." The North American proper affirmative felt unnatural on Connor's dry tongue. The strong urge to follow it up with a more natural "Aye" was suppressed. He crossed his arms and patted the sides of his chest were his gun were pressed into his sore ribs.

The first guard guffawed. "An honest American. First I've seen." Connor let himself smile in genuine pleasure. The Russian still had not seen one.

"Give those two me." Wolfman demanded holding out his wiry hands. Connor undid his coat, and swore mentally when he realized he had left his silencers screwed on. Drug dealers generally didn't use silencers, especially the stupid, drunk American, first-time drug dealers.

Connor passed them over hoping the men did not consider the implications and the utility of such a weapon. They raised their eyebrows a little, but put them on the metal table with no comment. Connor guessed that the Russian's assumed he was paranoid or watched too many movies. Connor decided that in retrospect, both may have been true.

"This way," Gorilla waved as he pounded a heavy fist into the next door in an uneven rapid patter. Connor realized belatedly that he should have been listening to catch the rhythm of sequence. An equally formidable doorman Connor immediately named Lurch swung open the door after a familiar snicker of a slide lock. Lurch and Gorilla moved down a long corridor to the next door past another palette. Connor reflected that Zhuklov must make some of his men live here to keep the place secure. Connor shuddered, suddenly too cold. A miserable existence, to be sure. He preferred the fresh air, or at least the smoky air that reminded him of a good Irish pub, or his twin.

So far Connor had only seen three guns, other than his own. All of them pathetic little nine mils. Well to be fair, not that AK's or other big arms brought a lot of advantage in such close quarters. Gorilla leaned over to speak to Lurch in Russian. Connor's ignorant comment had assured the Russian that conversations in their mother tongue would not be overheard. "I think the buyer is on something already. Zhuklov will laugh when he sees his man." Connor tried to keep his face blank except for reasonable amount of curiosity.

They came to a final door. Lurch banged out another beat Connor only caught a piece of, because his head chose that moment to stab little shivers of hate through his eyes. He moaned softly and Lurch looked over his shoulder and huffed out a laugh. Lurch slipped past Connor, back to his post at the other end of the wall. The door opened revealing two men. One was obviously the notorious gang mob leader, Zhuklov. The other was a suited man carrying a submachine gun. The man held open the door with one hand; the other gripped the gun with the index finger at the trigger. The gun was aimed at center of Connor's gut. Not interested in the quick death, Connor mused somewhat morbidly.

Gorilla spoke up to Zhuklov, and shut the door behind them. Connor heard the latch shut. "This is the man, Conlin, we were told about. He wishes to begin an operation."

"Do you have funds, Mr. Conlin?" Zhuklov was sitting behind an antiquated desk. Dark mahogany glinted at Connor in a room lighted by a few oil lamps. The whole thing felt cold and empty, not unlike a crypt in that horrible Dracula movie. Connor heaved the bag up and down. The shifting weight made him take a quick step to lean on the wall. A small amount of cash was layered on top, to give the appearance on being full of money. But other supplies necessary for his mission filled the bag. Gorilla moved to stand even with Connor, his right hip next to Connor's left hand. Zhuklov began talking again, this time in Russian, to his inferior holding what could have been a M-4 aimed at Connor. "See this man to the door, have whatever he can pay for delivered tomorrow. Charge him five and half what it's worth. The drunk won't even notice. We will drown the competition." The suited man nodded, and let the muzzle of the gun slip off its dead aim on Connor's gut. "What do you have for me?"

Connor answered him in flawless Russian as he pulled out Gorilla's side arm.

"A quick death."

Connor first shot the suit, putting two bullets into his head to be safe. Clothing like that disguised body armour or a Kevlar vest. Connor and Murphy learned to never make mistakes like that twice.

Connor put one shot into Zhuklov before the Gorilla turned around in surprise and leapt towards Connor. Connor had time for one sharp retort of the pistol before he had to spin sideways to his right to redirect the momentum of the Russian. Their bodies still collided in a breathtaking hit on Connor's part, but he kept his senses enough to throw the heavier man into the door. Gorilla rebounded off it, then turned and grabbed Connor by the shoulders. Connor tried to suck in a breath, but couldn't. He took a step backwards suddenly, attempting wrench himself out of the bigger man's grip. The Russian pushed instead, sending Connor to the floor. Connor hit hard, and at the pain of the impact, remembered how to breathe. His breathing was coming in sharp quick huffs that sent him gasping and coughing fit. He turned over onto his back and locked his elbows in the attempt to steady his aim, then fired.

A small hole appeared in the center of the Russian's head. The man fell forward, teetering like a slain giant. He landed directly on Connor. The dead weight held him trapped for a few desperate seconds, until he pushed off the ground with his feet and forced the dead Russian off him. Connor rolled onto his stomach and glanced back the mahogany desk for any signs of life from the mob boss.

Nothing.

Connor panted to himself, intending to go back and get Lurch and Wolfman, retrieve his guns, and get out. He was spattered with gore and blood, and he could not catch his breath. It was coming in quick short bursts. Connor could hear the wheeze in it, and his chest ached. _Just go_. He picked up the small side arm – a berretta – off the dead suit. He transferred the full gun to his left hand. Connor knocked aside the slide latch, and quickly jumped aside from in front of the door as it was kicked inwards. Lurch stepped through first, his eyes wide with fear, anger, and adrenaline.

Connor pulled the trigger. The tall man dropped to the floor, blood spraying Wolfman's outstretched hand. The two guns in Connor's hands retorted, the sound of bullets flying seemed to echo in the small concrete room. Wolfman hit the floor, hard. Connor dropped the nine mil from his right hand, and grabbed his bag from where he had dropped it on the floor. Connor strode back through the corridor and picked his guns off the steel table where they still lay. He breathed a sigh of contentment. They were safe. Connor threw his borrowed gun onto the table. Sudden pain shot through his shoulder. He was turned by the sudden impact and fell backwards on the furniture. Zhuklov stood hunched over, his own pistol gripped in his hand. Connor felt the sturdy edge of the table hit his head. He heard a small high-pitched pop. And everything went dark.

* * *

"Smecker, you'd better fucking arrest me."

Smecker glanced into the eyes of who he personally assumed was the younger twin. Anger was there, anger and rage. But hidden was pain, guilt, and betrayal. "Why would I want to do that? It would be pretty hard to explain to the booking officer." Smecker hoped, he knew somewhat vainly, that a little humour could diffuse the situation enough that he was not in a room with an armed, pissed off, and somewhat murderous, MacManus.

"I promise you fratricide would be harder." Murphy kept rubbing his face and the burn mark on his neck. He started pacing. Smecker quickly grew dizzy at the remarkable show of pent up aggression.

"Cain, sit down and tell me. Is Able okay to do this?" Murphy let loose a strangled laugh and collapsed bonelessly into a chair.

"Should I call an out APB on him, see if I can pick him up before he gets there?" Smecker watched Murphy's face drain in colour. Murphy glanced at the television that was still on and muted, and swore. Smecker counted no less than four different languages.

"Think he's been gone too long to get him on the way there. Unless of course, ESPN hasn't dramatically changed their scheduling. And getting him arrested with weapons on him? Not a good plan." Murphy shrugged.

"What's wrong with Connor? He didn't sound right on the phone." Smecker said softly. The twins were private men. Direct questioning they did not volunteer for rarely got him anywhere. But usually, they had a good sense of when to confess for their own good.

"Sick. A fever, maybe pneumonia. He wasn't feeling too good, and that last job went fucking sideways." Murphy stopped and looked at Smecker's face. He seemed to hesitate and glanced to his right. He shook his head, and rubbed at his face again. "Connor thought running off the dock was a safer alternative than running behind cover."

"The drag marks under the pier." Smecker interjected, somewhat triumphantly.

"You found that?" Murphy nodded to himself. "Christ you're good." He rubbed his face again. "The rest of that night was pretty rough." Murphy glanced away from Smecker, who knew then he was just going to get the _Cliff Note's_ version. "Smecker, I'll call you later." Murphy stood abruptly, breaking Smecker's train of thought.

"Where are you going?" Smecker could have kicked himself because he read the answer in Murphy's eyes. "You can't go after him. If he does make it in there, you banging on the door will get him killed."

"I can't just fucking leave him to get killed!" Murphy shouted back at Smecker. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, he can't even walk in a straight line!" Murphy turned and kicked the fridge with his socked feet. Smecker winced. The appliance was dented, and Smecker was willing to bet when Murphy cooled down, his foot would have a similar dent.

"You go, and they either shoot you on sight, or shoot your brother. If he's going according to the plan, Connor will be unarmed until the last possible moment." Smecker calmly contradicted. Murphy turned a white hot anger onto Smecker. Smecker knew Murphy was a good man. He would never harm an innocent. But...

Murphy rubbed his mouth. "I need to fucking smoke." He grabbed the pack on the table and pulled out two. He tucked one behind his ear and popped the other in his mouth. He glanced up at Smecker. "You have somewhere to be?" His tone held a hint of apology.

Smecker laughed. "Yes, keeping you from going after your brother for now."

Murphy patted his pocket suddenly. "I think he fucking took the car."

"That place is a fifteen minute walk." Smecker looked at Murphy confused.

"I know that."

* * *

Connor's eyes opened slowly. He stared uncomprehendingly up. He blinked his eyes a few times. It was dark. The ceiling was gray. It wasn't white. Where was Murphy? Connor tried to pick his head up.

The world cracked and fizzed out.

A while later, Connor found himself staring at the lantern that lay to his left side. He didn't really remember waking up this time. He just floated where he was. It was warm and comforting. Nothing was ripping at his attention. No one was yelling at him. He didn't have any work to do. He wasn't hungry. Nothing demanded his worry and energy. All he knew was that Murphy had not said anything to him.

"Murph?" The effort it took to cough out the word awoke every other sensation in his body. Pain lanced out of his back. His ribs were unnaturally tight. His throat burned. His head ached. He could taste blood. Adrenaline surged through him. "Murph, you alright?"

Murphy didn't answer him.

Connor rolled to his left, onto his stomach. He choked back uprising nausea. He got his left arm underneath him; his right wasn't cooperating for some reason. He levered himself to his knees.

"Murphy? Where're you?" He barely recognized the sound of his voice, the words slurred together so much. "'Tink I'm drunk."

The contents beside the overturned table caught his eye. Three guns lay on the floor. "That isn't mine," he mumbled as he reached for them with his right hand. Pain flared up. "Stop." He said, then reached with his left. He tucked the two guns he recognized into his empty shoulder holsters. He stared at the third gun in puzzlement. He lifted it slowly, turning it over, and a vague sense of danger ran over him. Connor abruptly turned around, looking for the man who must have shot him, and then knocked him out. Connor couldn't figure out why the Russian would have done the second part, but it hardly mattered. He fired instinctively when he saw a unfamiliar body sitting next to the wall across the room from him. The body twitched with the immediately fired shot, and the head lolled, but otherwise it didn't move.

"What the hell?" Connor set down the gun that didn't belong to him, and pushed himself to his feet. He weaved across the room and stopped before the corpse of the Russian mob boss. Two gory holes, where the scrutinizing grey eyes used to be, stared back at him. "Did I do dat?" He shivered suddenly cold. He stumbled back across and opened his bag. He grabbed a few pennies out of the bottom of the bag and set them gingerly on the gore spots that still oozed blood and grey matter. Memory filtered through his brain and he remembered the four other bodies. He crossed Zhuklov, and pushed himself to his feet.

"And a shepherd I shall be." Connor walked from one body to the next laying on the pennies, and giving the men their last rights. He had to stop often to catch his breath, though. Connor felt compelled to sit down and get rid of the fogginess that seemed to be actively distracting him. "For thee my Lord, for thee." He turned over the body of the one he had called Gorilla, and crossed the man's arms. "Power hath descended forth from thy hand." He made his way back out and glanced around the dimly lit room. "That my feet may swiftly carry out thy command." Blood stains stood out from the pale grey of the cement. "So I shall flow a river forth to Thee." Five more dead men. An uncountable number of men, women and children saved. "And teeming with souls shall it ever be." Connor hesitated at the door. "_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_."

He glanced around one more time. The pattern of the blood stains confused him. There was blood on the table – quite a bit of it. Connor was reasonably sure he hadn't killed anyone over there. Fairly sure. So where... The dampness on his back caught his attention. He reached over his right shoulder with his gloved left hand. The black glove shone in the lamplight with a hint of crimson. He stared at his hand dumbly for a minute.

It was blood. _Why? Did I get shot?_

Blood was everywhere.

"Ammonia. I need the ammonia." He opened his bag once more and fished out the can of ammonia spray. He doused every blood spot he saw that could have come from him. Aware of it now, he could feel blood dripping down his back, soaking his pants.

Walking through the shelter was becoming noxious. Connor felt his chest heaving hard. The muscles in his back were taut. Everything hurt. His breath was coming too short. _Gotta' get out of here. Now!_

Connor broke out into a coughing fit the second he stepped outside. His lungs burned with the effort. He forced himself into the alleyway nearby, pulling himself along the buildings. His knees hit the pavement. Doubled over, he threw up on to the dirt street. He choked harder. _Gotta' calm down._

He tried to breathe slowly. It was hard. Every movement pulled the hole he now felt clearly on his right shoulder blade. Small breaths then. Small breaths. He breathed through pursed lips. His lungs still burned, but it was less. The tiny movement aggravated everything less. The edges of his vision were black as he looked down at the ground in front of him. _Got to get the fuck out of here_. He pushed himself back to his feet. _Came in here in the car_. Connor walked into the wall. He bounced off of it, and fell backwards into a garbage can. Shaking his head, he forced himself to struggle on.

Connor never remembered making it to the car, or driving home. The only physical evidence of the adventure was one more new dent in the door.

The first thing Connor remembered after the alleyway was the sudden impact of the car driving into the concrete barrier in front of its spot in the parking lot. His foot punched down the break. His right hand moved from death grip on the steering wheel to throw the gear shift into park. Connor took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was home now. He thought about going upstairs, but after two minutes of unsuccessfully trying to open the door of the car, Connor gave up. It was plenty warm enough to sleep in the car. Connor leaned his head heavily against the window, and closed his eyes.

* * *

I know, a cliffie. I am evil.... yah,....

There it is. Let me know what you liked/loved/had issues with. Whatever. Feedback will only make it better.

Reviews feed the ego/motivate the muse/make me happy/ etc....

Lol, thanks guys!!!!!


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Thus I present the final chapter. A big shout out to OTS, my beta, who did a wonderful job finding my typos. Any missed are solely on my head, (I write usually around 3 in the morning, and then get up at 7 for class)._

_Another shout out to all those who read it and liked, and those who let me know in some fashion or another._

_And remember, I have hinted at a few other plot lines, especially in this chapter. Any you want to see done for sure, tell me in a review!!_

_And I am so excited. Boondock Saints 2 is coming to a theater in my city on Dec. 11th. I can't fucking wait!!! I am totally going to be first in line……_

_So, with no further ado, as I really should be studying right now for a lab final exam…_

* * *

**Alone Pt. 3 (The conclusion)**

**By castiel's drycleaner**

**Rating T: For all the stuff I mentioned in chapter 1…. Mhwa ha ha ha…**

* * *

Murphy was sitting on the kitchen table kicking his feet, staring at the clock, a fresh cigarette hanging out of his mouth. An open bottle of whiskey was beside him, but relatively untouched. He rubbed his nose with the hand not glued to the cigarette. He glanced at Smecker who stood near the open window. Murphy assumed it was a subtle protest about the amount of stale cigarette smoke in the air. Murphy didn't care. Chain smoking relieved him. It was either this or get drunk, and he only had ten minutes left for Connor to get back before Murphy was going after him, consequences be damned.

Murphy inhaled. The rush of nicotine did relatively little to calm his rugged nerves. He let out a long breathe and pushed himself off the table. At the same time, Smecker snapped to attention. Murphy was about to snap at Smecker for being a domineering asshole, when he noticed the curious look about the agent's face.

"What kind of car did Connor take?" He leaned out the window and visibly winced. A second later Murphy heard the faint sound of crushing steel and ring of breaking glass.

"What the fuck?" Murphy ran to over to Smecker and glanced out the window himself. His and Connor's brown car was bent against the concrete barrier in their neighbour's spot. "How fast did it hit?" He asked over his shoulder as he was

running to the door.

"Not hard. Saw the brake lights go on after the impact, though." Smecker jogged up beside him as they left the apartment, leaving the door open. "We need to be careful –"

"Yah, wouldn't want to get seen hanging around with the likes of us by the criminals." Murphy said. Smecker's step on the stairs faltered for moment, but he resumed pace. Murphy bit his lip. "Fuck. You mean it may be a trap."

"It could be." Came the disturbingly succinct response. Murphy blew out a breath.

"Fuck it. Let's spring it then." Murphy ran the last few feet, pulled a gun, and burst out the backdoor of the apartment building.

The outside car lot was devoid of life. No angry Russian spilled out of the shadows; no bullets came whizzing at their heads; no mob boss stepped under a street light spouting villainous clichés from those movies Connor liked so much. It was all rather anti-climatic.

"This was too easy." Murphy heard Smecker mutter behind him. The man sounded disappointed.

"Don't say that. Do you know what happens in the movies when people say that?" Murphy laughed softly, cautiously approaching the still-running car. It was too dark to see into the illegally tinted windows, especially at night. "Christ, I sound like Connor."

He heard Smecker laugh softly. "Hail Mary, full o' grace." Murphy amended.

Murphy walked up the driver's side door a peered through the glass. His heart pounded loudly in his chest. The back of a blonde head rested on the blood streaked glass. Murphy rapped on the windows. Connor didn't stir. "Fuck!" He stepped quickly up the front of the car and broke off the wire antennae. He step to the back window and cracked against the back corner of the window. Safety glass shattered into perfect squares. The dark haired twin reached around and under his brother's body and flicked up the door latch. He slid his arm out again, which was now splotched liberally with blood. Murphy was more than a little disturbed at the complete lack of reaction from his twin. Smecker put his hand on the door handle.

"Get ready to catch him." Murphy squatted down to get level, and maneuvered around the opening door. He brother fell bonelessly into his arms. Murphy pulled him the rest of the way out of the car and laid him down onto the concrete.

In the pale yellow lamplight, and the dim glow of the moon, Connor looked like a corpse. His skin was pasty white and translucent. His lips were too dark in colour. His face was slack and unresponsive. Murphy's heart pounded harder until he saw two signs of life. Fever bright highlights on his brother's cheeks, and the slight hiss of too rapid breathing. "Dumb bastard's alive."

"We should get him to a hospital. Now." Smecker crouched down at Connor's side, a frown etched into his expressive face.

"And you do you suppose I'll explain this?" Murphy gestured at his brother's body. "Got sick and fell down a flight of stairs, did he?"

"You'll figure out something." Smecker said calmly. Murphy swore again.

The young man eased up behind his brother and gently lifted his brother's limp shoulders off the ground. "Get his legs, will ya?" Murphy's hand dug in harder. He heard a wet squish of fabric from his right, followed by a low groan. Murphy pulled right hand away. It was covered in drying blood. "The Fuck is that coming from?" He showed his hand to Smecker.

"Can't take him to the hospital till we figure out what that is." He angled his brother's body higher off the ground and slid his arms around Connor's torso. Murphy felt his shirt soak through. Murphy stood slowly from his crouch, Smecker supporting Connor's legs. They walked slowly back to the apartment, Smecker and Murphy keeping watch for curious onlookers, or opportunistic criminals. They made it back to the reinforced steel door that led to back entrance for the building. Smecker slowly set down Connor's legs.

"Where's the keys?" Smecker asked.

Murphy swore. "Front pocket on the right. On the jacket." He quickly added. Smecker retrieved them professionally and held the door open and Murphy dragged Connor inside. "Spending so much time carrying your ass around, gonna' get a fucking hernia." Connor chose that time to mumble something incoherently and flop his head around. Murphy rolled his eyes. "Knew he'd respond to that."

Smecker just raised one eyebrow. They pulled Connor up the stairs. Surprisingly no one bothered to check out the commotion at 3:30 in the morning on a week night. Thank God for small favours.

The group of three made it into the apartment. Murphy nodded towards the kitchen. "Lay him on the table. See what's wrong with his back before we make decisions."

Smecker pursed his lips but agreed.

Connor lay face down on the table with Smecker supporting his head and neck, which hung off the end. Murphy cut off Connor's clothes with a pair of First Aid scissors, pea coat included. Murphy winced at the waste of a good coat, but knew the chances of ever getting the blood out it were slim. Personally, he never wanted to see that particular coat again, once the damage to Connor's body was revealed.

The already obvious split in the back of Connor's scalp still wept blood. Blood caked down his spine, pooled, and then hardened in the small of his back. The wound from which it originated made Murphy turn white, then interesting shades of purple.

A neat little bullet hole lay directly above Connor's right shoulder blade. There was no exit wound, and it certainly wasn't a graze.

"Gunshot wounds get reported to the cops don't they?" Murphy asked in quiet voice.

"It's unavoidable." Smecker confirmed.

"He can't go then." Murphy said softly. "If he gets worse, I'll have to take him. But right now..." He closed his and walked over to a drawer and pulled out a large first aid kit. He laid it open on the nearest kitchen counter and looked at its contents. He sighed softly. "Connor awake?" Smecker dropped to his knees and looked up into the face of the head he was supporting. Smecker switched his grip to free one hand and lightly slapped the younger man's face.

"Think he's unconscious."

Murphy pulled a small suture kit out of the white box. "Good."

"You can sew?" Smecker laughed.

"Better than our Ma." Murphy snorted. "It was the only way fer us to get our stuff fixed. The woman was shite with a needle." He looked back at his brother. The harsh white light in the apartment did nothing to improve the look of his brother's skin tone. "Let's move him back a bit. Rest his head on the table so you can put pressure on his back while I stitch his head up." Murphy set his stuff back down on the counter, and between his and Smecker's efforts, they got Connor propped on his side slightly so that Connor's airways was open, and Murphy could get at the back of his head. They washed the blood away with a bottle of saline, and cleaned the area up with iodine. Connor's hair was parted away from the gash, which had begun bleeding again in earnest. Murphy laid a piece of gauze against it until he was ready.

Murphy bit his lip anxiously, wishing to go get a smoke. They'd never sewn each other up before, not from this anyway. Cauterization had always been the first method they tried, but that wasn't going to work on a head wound. Also, Connor would be pissed if he woke up to find all the hair singed off. Murphy was too angry to even consider the idea to be revenge.

Murphy settled down in a chair behind Connor and felt eyes burning into his face. He lifted his gaze to Smecker's. He sneered at what he saw there.

"Do you want to switch?" Came a response filled with genuine concern. Murphy looked down at his shaking hand that held two forceps clasping a sterile needle.

"You know how to do this?" Smecker shook his head negatively. "Just watch his face, see if he starts to wake up."

"His breathing..." Smecker trailed off.

"I know. He was wheezing before, but this is new." Murphy began stitching up his brother's head with steady hands. "Maybe he's just sicker. Stupid fucker shouldn't have gone without someone there. Not as he is."

Smecker leaned over the table to apply a liberal amount of pressure to the hole in his twin's back. Smecker frowned. "His eyelids are twitching."

"Well at least he's not so far gone, he can't feel pain." Murphy said softly. "Idiot probably wishes he was." Murphy finished putting Connor's head back together. He snipped the threads with a smaller pair of scissors. "Wish I could have taken out whatever was in there that put the idea in his head in the first place. For all we know, some angry Russians are going to break the door down tomorrow and fill us full of lead."

Smecker started to laugh. "That worked so well last time."

Murphy grinned ruefully. "That was one well-thrown toilet." He turned back to his brother. "Fuck." Connor's chest still twitched up and down with exaggerated effort. Murphy wondered if Connor was getting air at all. His twin was practically hyperventilating. The gauze Smecker held was soaked through. "Think he's lost too much..." Murphy trailed off.

"Not a doctor. By the time I see gunshot victims, they're already dead. I only know what that looks like."

Murphy placed his fingers on his brother's throat beside the cartage, trying to feel for a pulse. "Can't even feel one." He swore again. He studied his brother pale, sweating face. "His lips are still blue. What the fuck does that mean?" Murphy opened up a small bundle wrapped in green cloth. Small stainless steel instruments came into view. He shook his head at Smecker's inquisitive look. "You can buy anything if you know the right guys. I don't know what half this stuff is for, though." He picked up another set of forceps and motioned for Smecker to back off.

Murphy locked his jaw and pushed the end of the instrument down into the hole on his brother's back. Fresh blood started to ooze from the wound again. He swore softly. "Can't feel a bullet." Smecker looked at him. "No, I don't want you to try." Murphy bit the inside of his cheek. He laid the forceps back on the green sterile cloth, and picked up a scalpel. "Saw this on TV." Murphy half laughed. "Shite like that always comes out of Connor's mouth." He placed the scalpel's blade along the wound and cut a cross into it. Connor's breath hitched in a small moan of pain. "Easy, my dear brother." Connor's back muscles twitched and his head jerked.

A low voice sound from Connor's throat. The accent was extremely thick, and the words ran together. "Murphy. You alright? What's going on?"

"Do you guys have any painkillers?" Smecker asked quietly.

"Nah, the drug dealers don't really like us, you know." Murphy answered in a flat tone.

"I get some for you." Smecker said softly.

"What, how?" Murphy looked straight into Smecker's eyes. "You'd do that for us?"

"Letting you two get away with multiple homicides isn't enough?" Smecker smirked. "I'll tell the doc I hurt my back carrying something heavy." Smecker looked meaningfully at Connor.

Murphy snorted. "Yah, tell me about it."

He had already returned with forceps and had them back into the wider wound on his brother's back. Murphy gritted his teeth in concentration and felts the forceps hit against something small and solid. He adjusted the angle and felt around the edges of what he hoped was the bullet, and locked the object between the prongs. With as smooth of a motion he could make, Murphy pulled it out slowly, and a wet slurping noise was heard. The offending piece of metal became visible. Murphy looked at the flattened piece of metal. He hoped there weren't any remaining shards. Not that he could do anything about them if there were. He wiped away the blood, and started suturing up his brother's back.

Smecker was looking thoughtfully Connor's face. "There's a diving equipment store down the street. Opens at seven."

"Yah, so?" Murphy asked.

"They sell oxygen tanks." Smecker glanced towards Connor. "Looks like he may need it." Smecker walked to the sink at washed blood off his hands, and Murphy taped a large gauze bandage to his brother's back.

"I'm gonna' clean him up." He picked up a cloth, dipped it in water, and started to wipe drying blood from his brother's back.

Ten minutes later, he was done, and Connor was wearing a new pair of sweat pants. Smecker and Murphy gently lifted up Connor's lax body and carried him into the bedroom. Murphy tucked him into bed, covering him.

"He's still feverish." Smecker noted, one large hand covering Connor's forehead in an oddly affectionate move.

"Yeah, well maybe it will keep him from dying off shock." Murphy said sarcastically. "And overwhelmin' stupidity." Murphy propped Connor up a bit with both their pillows. Smecker nodded. "I'll go to the emergency room now with severe back pain." He huffed out a sigh. "I'll see you later, Murphy, when I have everything."

Murphy nodded goodbye, and pulled up a chair to watch his brother. Everything he didn't want to say when Smecker was there bubbled to surface. He stood suddenly, and the chair fell over. "What the fuck were you thinking?" He turned around and kicked his own bed. His foot twinged. "Seriously man, what the fuck?" A strangled sob noise left his throat. "You almost fucking died." His throat was starting to hurt. His own eyes burned. "You can't just go leaving me alone."

He strode up to his brother's face and looked down in Connor's eyes. They were open and confused. The pupil's were pinpricks, despite the darkness of the room. The large blue iris swiveled around the room and locked onto Murphy's face.

"Murph...." His breathing was louder now; it hitched harder. "Murph... It's okay. I'm here." A racking cough overtook his frame, and he curled in on himself. A cry of pain screamed from his mouth, and he jerked his body back flat. Murphy rushed up the help his brother into a sitting position.

"Breathe slowly, Conn." Murphy wrapped his arms around his brother's torso, and rubbed his lower back, far below the farcical attempt at surgery. "Breathe with me, okay?" He guided his brother and got him breathing back to a normalized manner. It was still too fast and too shallow, but it was better than the wracking coughs that were causing him too much pain. "You're doing good Conner."

Connor's stiff body sagged instantly in Murphy's arms. Murphy still felt the warm puffs of air against his own neck, so he rearranged the pillows to a higher stack. He laid back his brother after examining the gauze. Amazingly, Connor's coughing hadn't re-opened his wound. "Thank god." Murphy glanced at the clock. It was five am. He rubbed his eyes. It was too fucking early in the morning for this shit. Murphy laid back on the chair, his anger and guilt pushed away for the minute. Connor had been amazingly reckless. That was a fact. He had gone off nearly gotten killed. Fact. He knew he would have no back up. Fact. However, he'd made it home fast to enough for Murphy to save him. At least Connor wasn't acting like he was suicidal.

Murphy scratched at the two burns on his neck. Connor was a rat bastard sometimes. His brother had always had a sucker punch up his sleeve. They would fight over the toys as kids, they would both be looking at the same girl – hell they'd both be going for the same piece of pie, and Connor always out maneuvered him. Usually Connor would share his spoils, the toys and the pie not the girls, but he was always just a little bit quicker on the draw. Murphy made up for with his own tenacity.

Connor was still breathing. His face was still pale. His lips were still pale and cyanotic. Murphy wasn't going to let him go. Not until Connor was properly aware. Fever gone, conscious and alert, so Connor could properly understand why Murphy's oversized boot was up his skinny arse high enough to taste shoe leather.

Go out alone to do a hit.

"What an idiot."

"You're bedside manner is pretty awful." Smecker said from behind him.

Murphy leapt to his feet and wheeled around.

"Didn't hear you come in." He admitted softly. Smecker held a metal canister with a diving mask attached, a white paper bag rested on a chair near the bedroom door.

"I'll set up the oxygen." Smecker nodded at the paper bag. "There's quite a few Percocets in there.

Murphy pulled out a large orange prescription bottle. And then he pulled out another. "What's this one?"

"I also had a raging infection. Thought it would be good to get some antibiotics into him. Maybe get rid of his pneumonia." Smecker's pager went off. "Fuck. Looks like they found your brother's mess." Murphy felt a spike of dread go through him. Did Connor screw up and leave any evidence behind? The man had definitely not been thinking straight, even before a head injury and a gunshot to the back.

"I'll do what I can to help." Smecker nodded. "Call me if anything changes. Don't wait too long if…" Smecker paused, "If you have to take him to the hospital."

With that, the agent left, shutting the door softly behind himself.

Murphy was left alone with Connor.

He turned to face his brother. The regulator for the diving mask had been set to open, and the line was taped to his brother cheek. Already, there was a bit more color in his brother's lips, and under a closer inspection, in his nail beds.

Murphy relaxed.

He could deal with this.

* * *

The next few days were difficult.

Getting his brother to drink was extremely challenging, especially given the flavour of the saline. Murphy knew Connor was in real danger from the shear blood loss, and being anemic while hurt and ill was dangerous. Smecker had thought ahead and dropped off a couple protein shakes and bottles of Gatorade. Murphy had diluted them with the saline and pushed it down Connor's throat anytime he was awake enough to swallow without choking. Connor was still only half aware, and had stubbornly protested that Murphy was trying to drown him again. The lighter-haired twin had never forgotten or forgiven him for the incident when they had both been sixteen.

Even with the antibiotics Smecker had procured, the fever raged on. Connor was too hot one minute and over racked by chills the next. His needs for more blankets or an ice bath had Murphy constantly on and off his chair. His brother also had a unique ability to sense from his restless sleep any time that Murphy slid out the window onto the fire escape for a smoke. Connor always awoke at the precise time, truly needing something. Murphy only had his leg out the window the last time Connor had come awake demanding Murphy turned up the heat in his bedroom.

Connor's dive into the ocean had come back to bite him firmly in arse. His cough persisted and Murphy was sure that his brother had gotten pneumonia. The stitches had ripped two days after Murphy had put them in. The coughing fit had been so rough that Connor had pulled a muscle in his ribcage. Murphy knew from his own experience that the feeling was worse than having several broken ribs. Murphy had to keep Connor drugged up to his eyeballs, his pain was so bad. Unfortunately, the reduced awareness made it harder to keep Connor hydrated and fed. Murphy knew better than to start pouring liquid down an unconscious man's throat. He played a game of chicken between Connor being in too much pain to eat, and Connor being too dopey to eat.

Murphy had thrown up himself the second time he sewed up his brother like a rag doll. Connor had been awake and delirious with fever and agony. He had struggled like a possessed man. Murphy had been forced to tie him to the bed to keep his twin still long enough to fix his back. The restraints had only made his brother struggle harder, cursing at Checkov, apologizing to Murphy for getting him shot in the head. Murphy tried to talk some sense into his brother, not that that had worked for days, but after more screams of fury and misery, Murphy decided getting the procedure done quickly would have been less traumatizing.

Murphy had never taken care of an infant before, but he was starting doubt why anyone ever had children. He'd say thank you to his mother the next time she starting in on her tits hanging down to her ankles routine. Murphy tried to banish the memories pertaining to those specific times before they formed.

Murphy stood musing by the door, utterly exhausted himself. He let himself sleep occasionally just after Connor had fallen asleep with the help of the opiates, but never deeply, because he couldn't trust that Connor would not start throwing up again, or coughing. Murphy was too scared of waking up to his brother dead from choking on his own vomit or phlegm. Murphy moved to his own bed and sat down. He looked at his watch. It was an hour until he had to wake his brother for the next round of antibiotics and liquids. He walked out of the bedroom and put his hand on the hole in the wall next to the bedroom door. Murphy rubbed his mouth. If Connor ever did this again...

A soft moan caught his attention.

He turned around, and a wrenchingly familiar sight greeted him.

Connor had come awake from another nightmare, whimpering softly, his left arm around his head with his eyes scrunched shut. Connor occasionally had migraines, ones that left him so completely out of it with pain, and it twisted Murphy up inside it was so hard watch. Murphy felt a familiar burning feeling in his stomach, and he knew Connor had to be in the grips of one. Murphy knew he could not give Connor anymore pain meds for another four hours. It was frustrating to sit there, knowing Connor was hurting, and he could do nothing.

Murphy could patch his brother up, give him medicine, throw on just one more blanket, and keep Connor company. But he could do nothing for this.

Tears started leaking from the corner of Connor's eye lids. Murphy rushed forward and slipped behind his brother and onto the bed. He rested Connor's thin ribcage against his chest and gently placed his brother's head down on his own shoulder. He didn't make a sound, knowing anything would amplify and drill into his brother's head harder. He simply sat there with Connor until his twin passed out again.

* * *

Connor's fever broke that night.

Murphy came into the room, and Connor was sweating enough that he had soaked through his sheets. Murphy, who had become quite good at replacing them, rolled his brother over and set about his tasks. He mopped sweat that was pouring off his brother's body. Connor was moaning incoherently again. "Sorry."

"It's alright brother." Murphy absently replied.

"Sorry."

"It's alright Conn. Go back to sleep." Murphy repeated. Connor forced open his eyes.

"Ma?"

"It's me Connor. Your Murphy." Murphy rolled Connor to his other side to straighten and tuck the sheet to the other side of the bed.

"Ma. I'm sorry."

"Three."

The next five hours were filled with so much of the same, Murphy could swear that he was stuck in his own version "Ground Hog _Hour"_.

"I'm sorry, Murphy." Connor whispered in a rough voice.

"Cent quinze, je suis désolé." Murphy counted out loud, "Et, quarante-huit appels pour moi, cinquante-sept pour notre mere, et deux pour notre père."

"I'm sorry-"

Murphy cut off Connor. "Et une plus, cela fait cent seize, mon frère."

"What are you rambling about?" Connor muttered and locked eyes with his brother. They were surprisingly clear.

"So you are really awake this time. Good, I guess. You've said sorry one hundred and sixteen times, yelled for me forty eight times, called for Ma thirty seven attempts, and even Dad twice." Murphy summarized with a helpless shrug.

"I'm sorry." Connor closed his eyes.

"That would be one hundred and seventeen."

"Shut it!" Connor snapped.

"Watch yer tone with me brother. I just spent the last five days wiping yer ass." Murphy stood up over the bed. "You're little stunt almost got you killed or arrested." Murphy's tirade picked up steam. "What the fuck were you even thinking? But you weren't fucking thinking were you?" He reached down and grabbed his brother's shoulder. "And worse yet, you fucking hit me with the fucking stun gun, and sneak out like you're going to the fucking prom."

Murphy didn't notice how white his brother's face went. The lines of pain that crinkled Connor's eyes made him look much older. Or the confused and guilty horror in the reflection of what he had done to himself, and more importantly to his twin.

"Murphy, I'm sorry, brother. I'm not sure what happened. I wasn't thinking straight. Are you alright?"

Murphy never heard him. His grip tightened, and his vision went back to the sight of what looked like his dead brother against the window of their car. "Next time, do us both a favor and don't come back. You want to do that alone? Fine. Be alone."

Murphy left the room.

Murphy slumped down in the living room onto his recliner. He shook his head and got up, heading for the couch with a lit smoke already in hand. He watched the black screen for half an hour before the voice of his conscience started registering. _R__eal fucking great, Murphy. You're such a fucking dick. Your only brother nearly fucking died and you rip him a new one for something he did when he was out of his head._ Murphy sat there and put his head into his hands. As much as it all hurt him - Connor nearly dying of wounds that could have been avoided, Connor leaving to go kill the mafia boss without him, hell, even Connor hitting him with a fuckin' stun gun - it was that Connor didn't trust Murphy enough to listen to him that was the worst bit. Murphy had told Connor flat out that he could not go. Connor had simply ignored him.

Murphy put his head back against the couch and shut his burning eyes. He inhaled deeply, letting smoke fill his lungs. He held his breath. Then he heard a crash, and sound of a body hitting the floor.

Murphy was on his feet with the cigarette behind his ear before he was consciously aware of it.

He ran through the bedroom door and saw Connor twisted up in his sheets lying on the bedroom floor, struggling to push himself up with one weak arm.

"Fuck, Conn, what are ye doin'?" Murphy raked a hand across his mouth and dropped to his knees, assessing the damage.

"Get out." Came Connor's cold voice.

"Not happening, brother. What do you need?" Murphy put a hand on Connor's bare shoulder, the one that he had unknowingly grabbed earlier. Connor flinched.

"Fuck you." Connor shook his brother off and pushed himself to knees. He started half crawling, half knee walking towards the bedroom door.

"Where are you going, man?" Murphy trailed after his brother, more than a little confused.

Connor locked his jaw, his face sweating and dangerously pale. He kept going. Murphy realized what was going on when Connor turned to go down the hall. "If you need help going to the bathroom, should have asked." He said somewhat cockily, until he remembered what his last words to his brother were. _Be alone_. The commandment rang in his ears. He felt lightheaded himself.

Connor hauled himself to his feet using the doorknob. He walked on shaky knees around the door and shut it. Murphy heard the lock click.

The phone rang. Murphy glanced at the door his brother was behind. Murphy hoped Connor didn't fall and crack his skull, but he let him be. He walked back to bedroom, and answered the phone. "'Ello?"

"It's just me." Smecker's voice sounded over the phone. "How's everything going? I just finished analyzing the crime scene. I've never been so confused. Connor shot the mafia boss through the both eyes from straight across with two different types of guns. One shot was imbedded in the wall as if it were shot when the boss was standing up; the other shot was as if the boss was sitting. The second shot was fired after the man was dead for at least half an hour." Smecker rattled off the information as if he were still at the crime scene. "And the whole place was contaminated with ammonia."

Murphy just stared in shock. _What the fuck had happened?_

"The aerosolized ammonia might have explained why Connor was having so much trouble breathing, if he inhaled any of it." Smecker thought out loud.

"Yeah," Murphy nodded. "Smecker, you mind coming over and staying with Connor for a bit?"

"I can. What do you need, fresh air or sleep?" Smecker sounded a bit surprised. The agent had made the offer, but as of yet, Murphy hadn't asked for help.

"Something like that..." Murphy hedged and cursed as the crack mind of the FBI genius investigator figured it out.

"What happened?" Smecker asked. The one thing that Murphy had appreciated when time he and Connor had been arrested was the fact that even when Smecker had been interrogating them on the deaths of the two Russians, Smecker had done so with true polite impartiality. That same tone of voice irritated him now. He half wondered if it was because he felt like he should have been called out on his behavior. Self flagellation seemed to be the correct penitence in this case.

"What you mean to ask is, 'What did I do'." Murphy answered.

"Do I?"

"The second Connor appears to be back – you know feeling better, no fever, coherent – I rip into him like I some sort of date he stood up for a better thing."

"I see."

Murphy laughed and did not note the hysterical edge to it. "Do ya, then?"

"You're pissed at your brother for ignoring good advice. And you know it was good advice because your brother returned to you about half an hour away from being dead." Smecker paused. "However, Connor was altered that night. In a court situation, he might even be able to plead not guilty due to his mental state. Normal Connor would have never done what he did, not the way that he did it."

"You sure about that?" Murphy asked in a low voice.

"The questions is can _you_ answer that, not me? Because if you can't, I'd be happy to take time off work and stay with Connor until he is well enough to get by on his own." Smecker replied evenly, with that earnest, polite dead-seriousness.

"I can now." Murphy answered. "I think I need to talk with my brother."

"Good." Smecker hung up.

Murphy clicked the end button on the phone.

He dropped it to the floor, walked back to the bathroom door, and knocked softly. "Aye, it's just me." Murphy heard the toilet flush and the lid clatter down. If he was not mistaken, he heard Connor take a seat on it. "You don't need to say anything, if you don't want to. Just listen to Murph."

Murphy sat on the carpet opposite the door. "I was wrong." Murphy heard a snort and smiled. "Amazing, isn't it? A MacManus admitting he was the one in fault. I was, the night you left. I didn't sit down and talk you through yer plan. Help you see the flaws in it. I just flat out ignored your ideas, and you ignored mine. You were too sick to go, but you didn't realize it. And I was in the wrong until just now, when I realized two things. That it wasn't my fault you went and got hurt worse." Murphy heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door. Murphy braced himself for the round of raucous coughing that was sure to follow. Murphy glanced at his watch. Connor was due for another Perc thirty two minutes ago when Murphy was wallowing in self pity. This was going to extremely painful for his brother.

Connor finally finished, and Murphy released the breath he had unknowingly been holding. He could hear the controlled measured breaths Connor was using to manage his pain and suppress his cough reflex.

"And two, I don't blame you for what happened either. You did what you thought was right at the time. I just wish you hadn't made the decision alone." Murphy blew out a breath.

"I'm sorry Murphy." The door opened to the bathroom. Connor leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him vertical. Murphy slipped under his twin's uninjured arm, wrapping his arm low around Connor's waist. Murphy held his brother up.

"So that's one hundred and eighteen times. You're fucking awful at apologizing if it takes you that many tries."

"Oh fuck you. Yer one to talk."

Connor and Murphy hobbled back to the bedroom.

Together.

_And _shepherds we _shall be _

_For thee my lord, for thee _

_Power hath descended forth from thy hand _

_That _our _feet may swiftly carry out thy command _

_So we_ _shall flow a river forth to Thee _

_And teeming with souls shall it ever be _

_In nomine Patris, et Filii Spiritus Sancti _

* * *

_There it is….._

_Reviews feed the muse._

_Any suggestions, things you want to see in the future, you must tell me! I am not telepathic…. Though that would be cool…. "Troy Duffy, you must write the third movie.... Now" and "Include angst" And "shirtlessness" _

_Thanks guys for the ride!!!_

_~castiel's drycleaner Nov 2009_


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